could see his sunny golden hair trap the candlelight. The man turned, and two of the prettiest negligeed beauties slid beneath the branch of his arms and kissed his laughing countenance with obvious sincerity. Lord Landry! If he sees me, thought Frances, I shall die of shame. She whipped her face toward St. Pips.
As the night progressed, Beamer stuck to the entrance as if he’d been glued there. The company grew drunker, the conversation more ribald, and the flirtations into fondling. Couples began to break from the group and ascend the staircase, accompanied by merry encouragement from those remaining below. It was almost more than poor Miss Atherton could bear.
Frances was so intent upon both keeping her head, her profile even, from Landry’s direction and peeking to see if Beamer left his post, that she was caught unaware by a shift in St. Pips’ mood. True, his monologue about horses had distracted him, but it had also had the unfortunate effect of sobering him enough to realize that he was in no way tapping Frances for her full potential. Suddenly, he thrust a strong arm around her waist and drew Frances roughly to his lap. Her instinct was to slap him, and she did. St. Pips gaped at Frances, then shouted with beery laughter.
“By God, don’t I love a naughty wench! What a time we’ll have together!” He poked his fingers gleefully into her ribs. “The slap and tickle, eh? You slap me, and I’ll tickle you!”
“I’ll do a lot more than slap you if you don’t remove your hands this instant,” muttered Frances, fighting to disengage herself from his bullish clinch.
“Oh, you’re a good one, you are. Tell you what . . .” St. Pips made a suggestion to her that made Lord Landry’s proposal of last week seem the pinnacle of delicacy. “So let’s go upstairs.”
Covered with a full body blush, frightened that Madame or Jem Beamer would observe their struggle, frightened of St. Pips’ beefy strength, Frances felt her poise beginning to waver.
She demanded to be released, but St. Pips persisted in his belief that they were having a grand time of it. Catching her wrists in one hand, St. Pips used the other to continue tickling at her waist. It was in the midst of this miserable tussle that Frances heard Lord Landry speak.
“My friend St. Pips!” Yes, it was Landry’s voice, untroubled by temperament, unmoved by pity; the same easy, friendly tones that promised much and nothing. “How are you?”
St. Pips stopped wrestling with Frances and stared up, blinking in befuddlement.
“Landry!” he blurted, “but you never talk to me! . . . Oh! Wait! Didn’t mean that. What I mean is—Hullo!”
Frances sat frozen on St. Pips’ lap, cringing, filled with the most vile humiliation, her gaze fixed on the clinging fabric of her gown.
“Introduce me to your friend?” suggested Landry.
“This one’s the Mysterious White Rose,” guffawed St. Pips, and gave her a jovial swat on the back. “Make no mistake about it, she’s a game one.” He gave a suggestive wink. “Likes a spirited play.”
“What rare discernment, my dear St. Pips.” Frances didn’t have to see Lord Landry’s face to know that he was smiling. “But how is it that you’re not drinking? Here’s your glass, and full, too! Give me your opinion. The burgundy is tolerable stuff, don’t you think?”
Flattered beyond words to have his views solicited by so elevated a connoisseur, St. Pips began a rambling attempt to prove that he was in exact agreement with Lord Landry’s pronouncement. Landry, meanwhile, was able to introduce the wineglass into one of St. Pips’ hands, and at the same time free Frances’ wrists from the other. Frances felt the cool, steady pressure of Landry’s hands high on her sides as he whisked her from St. Pips’ lap and sat her carefully in a nearby chair.
“What a lot of names you have, Miss Atherton,” he whispered, his breath soft among her curls.
Frances’ quickly accomplished removal
As the night progressed, Beamer stuck to the entrance as if he’d been glued there. The company grew drunker, the conversation more ribald, and the flirtations into fondling. Couples began to break from the group and ascend the staircase, accompanied by merry encouragement from those remaining below. It was almost more than poor Miss Atherton could bear.
Frances was so intent upon both keeping her head, her profile even, from Landry’s direction and peeking to see if Beamer left his post, that she was caught unaware by a shift in St. Pips’ mood. True, his monologue about horses had distracted him, but it had also had the unfortunate effect of sobering him enough to realize that he was in no way tapping Frances for her full potential. Suddenly, he thrust a strong arm around her waist and drew Frances roughly to his lap. Her instinct was to slap him, and she did. St. Pips gaped at Frances, then shouted with beery laughter.
“By God, don’t I love a naughty wench! What a time we’ll have together!” He poked his fingers gleefully into her ribs. “The slap and tickle, eh? You slap me, and I’ll tickle you!”
“I’ll do a lot more than slap you if you don’t remove your hands this instant,” muttered Frances, fighting to disengage herself from his bullish clinch.
“Oh, you’re a good one, you are. Tell you what . . .” St. Pips made a suggestion to her that made Lord Landry’s proposal of last week seem the pinnacle of delicacy. “So let’s go upstairs.”
Covered with a full body blush, frightened that Madame or Jem Beamer would observe their struggle, frightened of St. Pips’ beefy strength, Frances felt her poise beginning to waver.
She demanded to be released, but St. Pips persisted in his belief that they were having a grand time of it. Catching her wrists in one hand, St. Pips used the other to continue tickling at her waist. It was in the midst of this miserable tussle that Frances heard Lord Landry speak.
“My friend St. Pips!” Yes, it was Landry’s voice, untroubled by temperament, unmoved by pity; the same easy, friendly tones that promised much and nothing. “How are you?”
St. Pips stopped wrestling with Frances and stared up, blinking in befuddlement.
“Landry!” he blurted, “but you never talk to me! . . . Oh! Wait! Didn’t mean that. What I mean is—Hullo!”
Frances sat frozen on St. Pips’ lap, cringing, filled with the most vile humiliation, her gaze fixed on the clinging fabric of her gown.
“Introduce me to your friend?” suggested Landry.
“This one’s the Mysterious White Rose,” guffawed St. Pips, and gave her a jovial swat on the back. “Make no mistake about it, she’s a game one.” He gave a suggestive wink. “Likes a spirited play.”
“What rare discernment, my dear St. Pips.” Frances didn’t have to see Lord Landry’s face to know that he was smiling. “But how is it that you’re not drinking? Here’s your glass, and full, too! Give me your opinion. The burgundy is tolerable stuff, don’t you think?”
Flattered beyond words to have his views solicited by so elevated a connoisseur, St. Pips began a rambling attempt to prove that he was in exact agreement with Lord Landry’s pronouncement. Landry, meanwhile, was able to introduce the wineglass into one of St. Pips’ hands, and at the same time free Frances’ wrists from the other. Frances felt the cool, steady pressure of Landry’s hands high on her sides as he whisked her from St. Pips’ lap and sat her carefully in a nearby chair.
“What a lot of names you have, Miss Atherton,” he whispered, his breath soft among her curls.
Frances’ quickly accomplished removal
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